This was the sort of remark which delighted Henry and Eleanor was adept at making such. She was implying criticism of Louis and Charles of Anjou and of Richard of Cornwall, her sisters’ husbands. Of course he and Louis were the Kings and therefore desirable and he was a little piqued by hearing the compliments which seemed to be showered on Louis and to witness how his people seemed to revere him when he rode out.
‘His people are more demonstrative than they are at home,’ he said. ‘My people are not so affectionate towards me.’
‘Louis has just returned from a crusade,’ replied Eleanor. ‘That makes the people regard him as a saint.’
But it was not only that. There was a humility about Louis IX which, coupled with a dignity, set him apart. There was compassion in him. This was a King who cared for his people. He would never harry them with taxes for his own needs. Louis set little store by the splendour of his rank; he did not care greatly for festivals. He cared about the people, what they were thinking, how he could better their lot.
It was rather trying, Eleanor thought, when her sister Marguerite talked to her of him. Marguerite was completely devoted to her saint and continually singing his praises, when it was clear to Eleanor that Louis did not dote on her in the same way that Henry did on his Queen.
The four sisters sat together, they walked together, they shared the tapestry which Marguerite was making and they talked and were transported back in their thoughts to Les Baux.
It was like being young again and it was amazing how they slipped back into their roles of subservience to Eleanor.
‘Do you remember …’ The phrase was constantly occurring and they would talk of the old days, laughing, being young again.
Then they talked of the present, and the change in their lives since the days in Provence. Marguerite had adventured most for she had been with Louis to the Holy Land.
‘I would not let him go alone,’ she said. ‘I insisted. His mother did not want him to go. No one wanted him to go. They thought he should stay at home and govern his kingdom. I remember the day he was so ill that we thought he was dead. I remember how he lay on his bed and one of the women wanted to draw the sheet over his face because she thought he was dead. But I would not let them. I would not believe that he was dead. I forbade them to cover up his face. I cried: “There is life in him yet,” and then he spoke … in a strange hollow voice as though he were far away. He said: “He, by God’s grace, hath visited me. He who comes from on High hath recalled me from the dead.” Then he sent for the Bishop of Paris and said to him: “Place upon my shoulder the cross of the voyage over the sea.” We knew what this meant. His mother and I looked at each other and although she tried to shut me out and I did not like her, for I feared that she resented his love for me and wanted him all for herself, we were at one in this for we knew what Louis meant. He was going on a crusade. We begged him to make no vows until he was well, but he would take no food until he had received the cross. I remember how his mother mourned. Her face was blank and she was as one who has the sentence of death on her. He took the cross and kissed it and when she had drawn me from the chamber, she said to me: “I must mourn him now as though he were dead for soon I shall lose him.” She meant of course that if he went on a crusade she would die before he returned.’
‘You did not like her overmuch,’ said Eleanor. ‘She was always determined to shut you out.’
‘At first I resented her. But later I understood. She loved him so much … could not bear that anyone should come before her with him. He was her life. It had no meaning for her if she lost him.’
‘And then he went away,’ said Sanchia, ‘and you went with him.’
‘It was not until three years after that, but I knew it was in his mind. He used to talk to me about it. He had had a vision when he was lying close to death and he believed he had been sent back to Earth to fulfil a purpose. He had to go to the Holy Land, because it was ordained by God.’
‘They say he is a saint,’ said Sanchia.
‘They are right,’ replied Marguerite.
‘I would prefer to be married to a man,’ retorted Eleanor.
‘Louis is a man,’ replied Marguerite. ‘Doubt it not. He can fly into a rage but it is mostly over injustice. He does not want to hurt anyone. He wants to make people good and happy …’
Eleanor yawned slightly. She began to tell them about the wonderful feasts Henry had given at Bordeaux to celebrate the marriage of Edward and the little Infanta.
Beatrice whose husband had gone on the crusade with Louis brought the subject back to the great crusade and said how happy they had all been when it was over.
‘It was a frightening time,’ Marguerite told them. ‘Often I thought we should all be killed. Louis was torn between his need to take part in the crusade and to govern his country. He said that his grandfather had felt the same when he went to the Holy Land with his Queen.’
‘She had some gay adventures, I believe,’ said Eleanor. ‘I was always interested in her because we shared the same name.’
‘Eleanor of Aquitaine,’ murmured Beatrice.
‘My husband’s grandmother,’ added Eleanor. ‘I think I should enjoy going on a crusade.’
‘It is so exciting when you plan to go,’ said Marguerite. ‘Less so when you arrive.’ She shivered. ‘I hope Louis never decides to go again. I shall never forget his mother’s anguish when he left. She knew she would never see him again. It was a premonition. I can hear her voice now and see her blue eyes, usually as cold as ice, misty then soft with love for him. She said: “Most fair son, my tender boy, I shall never see you more. Full well my heart assures me of this.” Nor did she. Four years later she died and we were still there. It was because of her death that we came home. Louis knew that that was where his duty lay. He thought it was a sign from God that he should return home.’
‘And all the time you were there, poor Marguerite, Sanchia and I were living comfortably in England.’
‘It is wonderful that the two of you are together,’ said Marguerite.
‘Is it not like some fateful pattern?’ demanded Beatrice. ‘Two sisters for two brothers, and two more sisters for two more brothers. I wonder if it has ever happened before in families?’
‘We elder ones had the Kings,’ said Eleanor.
‘Romeo used to say that he would have Kings for all of us,’ Beatrice reminded them.
‘Romeo was boastful,’ said Sanchia.
‘Well, we can all congratulate ourselves,’ put in Eleanor, ‘for after all we were very poor were we not and had little to recommend us but our beauty and our brains.’
‘Not only,’ said Beatrice, ‘did you two marry Kings but those Kings loved you and have been faithful husbands. That is what seems strange to me. One does not expect a King to love his wife and be faithful to her.’
‘Louis is a saint,’ said Marguerite.
‘And Henry will tell you that I am the perfect woman,’ added Eleanor lightly.
Then they started to talk of their men; Marguerite of Louis’ piety; Eleanor of Henry’s devotion to her and his family; Sanchia of Richard’s lethargy which would suddenly beset him and as suddenly depart leaving him eager for some action which would probably be defeated by a return of the lethargy; Beatrice of her husband’s temper which was sudden and violent. Marguerite nodded. It was clear that she did not greatly like Beatrice’s husband. Eleanor suspected that Sanchia’s husband was not always faithful and she marvelled that the two who had made the most brilliant marriages should also have made the most happy ones.
But she could not help feeling a sense of rivalry with Marguerite. She wanted the King of England to shine more brilliantly than the King of France. She wanted his feasts and banquets to be the more extravagant. She knew that they would be because she would convey this to Henry and he would do everything to please her. Moreover Louis had no great regard for splendour.
Oh, it was wonderful to be with her sisters, to talk and talk over the old days, the
present and the future.
And as ever it seemed that Eleanor was the brilliant one, the one who had her way.
In spite of their marriages and all their experiences, they still looked up to Eleanor, the most beautiful and the cleverest member of the family.
* * *
Edward was happy. He had ceased to think of the mutilated boy. If he did it was to regard him as a burning beacon in his life. Through him he had seen the folly of his ways. He was going to begin a new life, learn to be a great King. He had a little wife who was beginning to adore him. She was only a child and he was glad of that because her youth made him seem mature and splendid in her eyes. He was kind and gentle to her; he was chivalrous, courteous, all that a knight should be to his lady. He rode beside her, ready to defend her, make sure that she was treated with the utmost courtesy; he talked to her of England and how he would care for her and told her how she would never have anything to fear with him to look after her.
The little Infanta had never been so cherished. It was small wonder that she was in love with her handsome bridegroom.
Henry and Eleanor were delighted and Henry told the child that she was now a member of their family which was the finest family in the world because everyone in that magic circle was loved by everyone else.
The Queen was less effusive but she showed quite clearly that she doted on Edward and that if Edward was fond of his little wife and was happy with her, then the Queen would be fond of her too.
It was a wonderful revelation for the little girl.
As for Edward he wanted to talk incessantly of the crusade. He admired the King of France, not because of the stories he heard of his goodness to his people, but because he had taken up the cross and been to the Holy Land.
He begged the King to tell him of the crusade and Louis would sit with him or walk with him in the gardens of the palace and talk.
He told Edward how, after having received the oriflamme, the scrip and the staff at St Denis, he took leave of his mother and went to Aigues Mortes where his fleet was assembled and how he set sail arriving first at Cyprus which was the meeting place for the forces of the expedition. His ship was the Mountjoy and on this flew that banner of red silk split into points and borne on a gilt staff which was the oriflamme – the royal standard of France. They set sail and the gales were so violent that many of the ships were dispersed. It was June – one year after he had left France – when they arrived before Damietta. ‘All the leaders came aboard the Mountjoy,’ said Louis, ‘and there I spoke to them. They looked to me as a leader because I was the King of France and I told them I was but a man, as vulnerable as they were. It might be that God would choose to take me in this struggle. It could as easily be me as any man. “If we are conquered,” I said, “we shall win our way to Heaven as martyrs and, if we are conquerors, men will celebrate the glory of God. We fight for Christ. It is Christ who will triumph in us, not for our sake but for the blessedness of His Holy name.”’
‘And you made war on the Saracens and you won the battle. You brought great glory to France.’
‘I came back,’ said Louis. ‘But it was no great victory. Men leave for the Holy Land full of good intentions. Often they are surprised by what they find. Great suffering has to be endured. Victory is elusive. I have heard disappointed men say that it seems God fights on the side of the Saracens not on that of the Christians.’
‘Pray, my lord, tell me more.’
‘I see you have adventure in your eyes, my lord Edward. Ours was no glorious victory for Christianity. We took Damietta with the utmost ease. We should have moved on. We had tarried too long in Cyprus and now we waited at Damietta. I believed more crusaders would join us. There was a great deal of revelry. Those who had helped to take Damietta wanted to rest there. They feasted, they lived on the booty they had taken. They took the women and the riches of the city. I protested but they would not heed me. Soldiers who have fought and won a victory demand their rewards. That is what the soldiers did at Damietta. By the time we were ready to march the Musselmans were ready for us. There was a battle at Mansourah – some twenty leagues from Damietta. My brother Robert, Count of Artois, led the advance forces.’
Louis put his hands over his eyes and turned away.
‘Pray go on, my lord,’ urged Edward.
‘But you do not want to hear these sorry tales, I am sure. They are not valiant hearing.’
‘I do want to know,’ said Edward, ‘I long to hear of your crusade.’
‘At first my brother had an easy victory. Alas, he was overconfident. I ordered him to wait for me with the rest of my forces, but he was impatient. He went on in pursuit of the enemy, but the Saracens had re-formed and rallied and they had been joined by others. My brother was surrounded. He fell pierced with wounds. He had ever been impetuous. And so I lost a brother.’
‘But you beat the Saracens.’
Louis shook his head. ‘We managed to defend ourselves … nothing more. We had to retreat and give up Damietta. It was no glorious victory. My men were sick and dying. There was news from France. My kingdom was in danger from the English. If I left the Holy Land many Christians who were living there would be in danger. So I asked those who were with me what decision they thought I should make.’
‘You are the King. You make the decisions,’ said Edward.
‘I have always felt that those who shared my defeats and victories should have their say. But their opinion was divided as was my own and in the end I made up my mind to stay a little longer. It was my great dream to win back Jerusalem to Christianity. So I stayed, and for four years I passed along the coasts of Palestine and Syria and I made it my task to succour the sick and make life possible for the population there. All I was doing was keeping the Christian stronghold. My dream of capturing Jerusalem passed me by as it did your great uncle Richard Coeur de Lion who came very near to bringing it to Christianity and just failed. Then news came to me that my mother had died and I knew then that I must return to France.’
‘My lord,’ said Edward, ‘I am going on a crusade.’
‘It is the dream of many a young man.’
‘For me it will be a dream fulfilled,’ said Edward fervently; and it was as though he had taken a vow.
Chapter XIV
THE UNHAPPY QUEEN OF SCOTLAND
While the English party was in Paris Pope Innocent IV sent a message to Henry which gave him immense satisfaction. Innocent who was in conflict with Manfred, the King of Sicily, the illegitimate son of the Emperor Frederick II, needed money to carry on his war and was determined to depose Manfred. Henry seemed to have a way of raising money when he needed it and Innocent thought that he could be of help in the Sicilian conflict. Of course Henry must be rewarded for his help; and it was this reward which caused Henry such pleasure.
He took the news to Eleanor without delay.
‘My dear, look at this ring which the Pope has sent.’
Eleanor took it and held it in the palm of her hand. ‘Why does he send it?’ she asked.
‘Ah, my dear, it has a special significance. It is for the King of Sicily. You look puzzled, as indeed you may. The Pope is at war with Sicily. He will dethrone Manfred. In return for help he sends me this ring which will be put on the finger of the newly appointed King of Sicily.’
‘And who … ?’
‘One of my sons, he says.’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Edward …’ she began.
‘My dearest, Edward has England. He will regain much of France. I thought Sicily for Edmund. You will have two Kings for sons then, my dear.’
Eleanor laughed.
‘You are right,’ she said. ‘It must be Sicily for Edmund.’
Henry immediately gave a special banquet to celebrate his son’s elevation to the throne of Sicily. There was a certain murmuring among members of his entourage as to how the crown of Sicily was going to be paid for. More taxes. Would the people endure it? That was the question. The King did not seem to realise that they were growi
ng dangerously restive.
Meanwhile there was a splendid celebration. Eleanor insisted on her younger son’s wearing the Sicilian costume and everyone declared how well it became him.
* * *
At last it was time to return to England. The King and Queen of France with their Court accompanied them for a day and the English party then continued its way to the coast. On a cold January day they crossed to Dover and prepared to make the journey to London.
There was a ceremonial entry into the capital where the traditional present of one hundred pounds was made to the King. It seemed, complained Henry to the Mayor, a very small appreciation when it was considered that he had been absent so long on the country’s business. The Mayor consulted with the merchants and a fine piece of plate was produced. The beauty of this pleased him but he was still disgruntled.
‘Trust the people of London to spoil my welcome,’ he grumbled to Eleanor.
Both Henry and Eleanor, much as they had enjoyed the homage paid to them by the Court of France, were delighted to be home.
The first thing Eleanor did was rush to the nursery to see her little daughter Katharine. The child was very pretty and healthy and she wondered why the nurses had a somewhat apprehensive air.
‘What is wrong,’ demanded the Queen. ‘Is the child ill?’
‘Not exactly, my lady, but …’
A fearful anxiety came to the Queen. While she had been enjoying life in France all was not well with her baby.
‘Come,’ she cried sharply, ‘tell me. Don’t dare hold anything back.’
‘My lady, the child does not speak.’
‘You mean … she cannot …’
‘It would seem, my lady, that she is dumb.’
Eleanor took the child and held her tightly in her arms.
She crooned over her. ‘My baby Katharine … This to be … and I not to know.’
She kissed the child fervently. Katharine smiled back at her, gently loving but dumb.
The Queen from Provence Page 23
